


Sleep

by doomcanary



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, hypnofic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 08:24:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1338661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcanary/pseuds/doomcanary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin and Arthur wake, and sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 1x11 "Labyrinth of Gedref"

The sun is slanting low over a maze of sea-worn fissures in the rock; the angular pools that gather in them gleam gold as magic in its light. A long-legged, coltish shadow leads back to a rough wooden table; on it are two silver cups, a sword, and a glinting chaos of light and dark. It might be a hauberk, carelessly heaped. On the smooth stones a little way away lies a crustacean form of steel, like a shell washed up empty on the shore; it's a pauldron, the straps splayed out across the ground like open arms. Inland, a maze of evergreen is an aching contrast of angular shadows and deep green walls.

Against the rock face, looking out over the sea, two young men sit on rough log stools, wedged into a bed of shingle washed up against the cliff. One is blond, fair as a summer's day; the other dark, the tan and blue and madder red of his clothes rich in the evening light. They lean back against the layered and striated stone, like a wall built by gods; it gives forth a slow warmth, the last of the summer's heat echoing out of it again. Silently, the dark one reaches out, and takes the blond one's hand; his companion starts, and lifts his head.

“You were nodding off again.”

“So I was.”

“We should move, really, before the tide comes in.”

“Mmm.”

“At least over the high water mark.”

“Absolutely.”

Merlin laughs quietly, and stands, leaving Arthur to drowse against the cliff. He picks up the table goblets and all, and carres it out of harm's way; goes back for the pauldron, and then looks up and down the shore, searching for driftwood. Something dark catches his eye a little way off; when he goes to it, it's the saddlebag he left behind on his horse, still stocked with food.

“Thankyou,” he says quietly, to the air. This place has been kind to them, now that they've passed its test. There's driftwood further down the shore as well, and Merlin gathers a good armful, and goes back to where Arthur still sits, eyes feline as they half-close against the sun. He picks a spot near the green walls of the labyrinth, well out of the reach of the tide; it's too late to start back now, to navigate the maze in twilight with Arthur still sagging and drugged. He strikes sparks into the fire, letting them catch naturally; it seems wrong to use petty magic in a place so suffused with a deeper power. The flames lick up, orange and tinged with green, as the salt in the driftwood burns into the air.

“Arthur.”

Arthur looks up; his eyes a little clearer, his face a little more like its usual self.

“I found my saddlebag on the beach,” he says. “There's food, and a fire.”

Arthur groans appreciatively, and laboriously gets to his feet; he sways a little as he stands. By the time they get back to the fire, the blankets each of them brought are beside it, neatly rolled. Merlin makes them something hot, a hasty porridge to go along with dried meat and apples; they eat with wooden spoons, passing the cooking pot between them, as though they were on the hunt. Food seems to help bring Arthur back to himself; Merlin tosses his apple core into the fire and looks up to find Arthur staring at him across it, a sudden sharpness in his face.

Merlin pauses, caught by that look, and asks a question with his eyes.

Arthur looks away.

“I thought I'd lost you, for a minute there,” he says.

Arthur, who drank poison, as if he had a duty to pay Merlin back for doing the same; Arthur, who died. Arthur; Arthur lost someone today.

“No,” says Merlin. “Not really.”

He gets up, and goes round the fire; takes the cooking pot, and sets it aside. Then he quietly sits down beside Arthur. The sun is a flaming orb now, sinking towards the sea. They look out at it over the snapping and flickering fire, each feeling the scant warmth that bleeds across the narrow space between them; shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm.

The distance closes, and they're leaning into one another, side by side.

“We should get some rest,” says Arthur.

Merlin turns to him, and looks quietly into his eyes. The ruddy light of the setting sun paints them both, shadowing Merlin's face, making Arthur's hair burn red-gold.

“Once the sun's down,” says Arthur.

His shoulder is a quiet warmth against Merlin's, as they watch the sea change from gold to red to deepening ultramarine. Merlin reaches for the blankets, unrolls one, without moving from where he sits; he spreads it out on the ground beside them. In firelight, Arthur turns Merlin's face towards him with a fingertip, and kisses him.

It's as slow as the sound of the waves, hissing over the shingle and the stones; the sound of the boundaries between them melting into shadow, crumbling into dust. Day becomes twilight, twilight becomes night; Arthur's cheek is rough at the end of the day, his hand firm on Merlin's back, and at the same time Merlin is lithe in Arthur's arms, a living warmth that stills itself and melts into him.

They tumble onto grey wool, connected, open to each other as the land around them lies open to the sky; Arthur's hand slides beneath Merlin's shirt, touches his skin, and like the fall of darkness they still. Arthur breathes in, a deep, deep sigh that seems to fill his whole being, lightening him like a weight dissolved.

“I'm still here,” Merlin whispers, his breath brushing Arthur's lips. “Still here.”

Against his forehead, Arthur's twists in pain; he presses his cheek against Merlin's, and Merlin feels the heat of tears, salt as the ocean, vital as blood.

“I love you,” Arthur says, choked and breathy. In the dark; in the dark, at the feet of the labyrinth, on the shore of an endless sea, those words are free. Merlin wraps his arms around Arthur, turns his face blindly into Arthur's hair, feels the burn of his own tears in his eyes.

“Always here,” he says. “Always. Never leaving.”

Arthur's arms are bruising-tight around him, his own feel inadequate, not enough strength in them to bind Arthur to him until the end of time. He lets his tears slide down his face, cool on his cheeks in the night air; trusts, desperately, that this little offering is enough, that the deep magic of this place and this time will hear their words, and make them true.

They sleep curled together, drained of emotion; Arthur's arm rests over Merlin's waist, his face hidden, his breathing deep. Dawn turns the mist around them to a sea of scarlet, and in the first pale fingers of light, they step into the labyrinth, hand in hand.


End file.
